


the best of you belongs to me

by charizona



Category: Killing Eve (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, LISTEN... listen. Listen., Masturbation, and now..., post 3x03 smut, praise kink (if u squint)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:28:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23883778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charizona/pseuds/charizona
Summary: There’s a flash of hurt? regret? something? in Villanelle’s eyes before they harden again and she tilts her chin up. “Do it again.”Eve doesn’t move. “Do what?”“Touch yourself.” Villanelle leans one shoulder against the bookshelf. Crossings one ankle over the other. Watches. Eve thinks about the bus, earlier, about the gasps of the people standing there and the pure performance of it all. She locks eyes with Villanelle and she--She does it. She slides her hand back into her pajama pants, past her underwear. Eve swears Villanelle’s eyes go black when Eve’s hand starts moving.
Relationships: Eve Polastri/Villanelle | Oksana Astankova
Comments: 41
Kudos: 605





	the best of you belongs to me

**Author's Note:**

> set after 3x03!

_Admit it, Eve. You wish I was here._

And god, she sounds so fucking cocky. So fucking self-assured that Eve listens to the recording exactly eleven times before she very roughly slams it onto the bedside table. It occurs to her, a split second later, that she could’ve broken it, so she snatches her hand back like it’s burnt. The stupid plastic heart sits there, rocking slightly, and finally, finally silent. 

She pokes it again.

_Admit it, Eve. You wish I was here._

Twelve times, now. And then Eve thinks about _the Twelve_ , not the number but the fucking international crime organization that now seems to be tidying up, getting rid of loose ends. And Eve, well, she’d consider herself an extremely loose end. 

Later, after Eve has brushed her teeth and splashed some water on her face and thought about wine, only to dismiss it after her chest decided to start aching again, she finds herself lying in bed, thinking about Villanelle.

Villanelle’s hands in her hands, as she pushed Eve down the bus aisle. Villanelle’s fists in her shirt, holding tight. Villanelle’s lips against her own, and yeah, Eve had leaned forward, because kissing seemed like the only thing to do, in the moment, but Villanelle was there, and Eve felt-- well, Eve felt everything.

Still does, as she turns over stubbornly and stares hard at the plastic heart on her nightstand. 

It’s just a toy. A toy with a recording of Villanelle’s voice in it, and Eve doesn’t let herself think about the last time she’d listened to a recording of Villanelle’s voice because back then, despite the danger, things had been different. A lot different. Very different than the Villanelle who traipsed onto the bus earlier today is the Villanelle who stood amongst Roman ruins and shot her.

Shot her. “Jesus,” Eve says. She turns over onto her back. She stares at the ceiling for sixteen seconds (she counts, four seconds on an inhale, four seconds on an exhale, and exactly two sets of these) before she blindly reaches toward the nightstand and presses on the toy a thirteenth time.

Eve presses it again, her hand wandering underneath her waistband and her fingertips brushing the soft, wiry hair there. And Eve is just closing her eyes, pressing her fingers just the tiniest bit forward and nudging against her clit when a smooth voice sounds in the air, at the edge of the room. 

“You don’t think I’m going to let you get away with what you did.” Said as a statement, around a hard Russian accent. Eve tears her hand from her pants, pushing herself upright before her torso aches, reminding her of this fight, this woman who is standing in her apartment now looking like she wants to-- 

Kiss or kill. 

Villanelle has her hands deep in her pockets. “Don’t stop just because I’m here.” Her eyes go to the heart on the nightstand. Her voice gets a tad breathier, “Were you listening to me?”

“No,” Eve says, automatic, deflective… telling. Villanelle smiles, eyes going for the toy in Eve’s hand. Then, her eyes drop to Eve’s chest, where there’s a considerable scoop of cleavage, but also the beginnings of a bruise blooming, where Villanelle’s knee had been.

There’s a flash of hurt? regret? something? in Villanelle’s eyes before they harden again and she tilts her chin up. “Do it again.”

Eve doesn’t move. “Do what?”

“Touch yourself.” Villanelle leans one shoulder against the bookshelf. Crossings one ankle over the other. Watches. Eve thinks about the bus, earlier, about the gasps of the people standing there and the pure performance of it all. She locks eyes with Villanelle and she-- 

She does it. She slides her hand back into her pajama pants, past her underwear. Eve swears Villanelle’s eyes go black when Eve’s hand starts moving.

“Take your clothes off,” Villanelle says. Voice soft, yet commanding.

“Fuck you,” Eve whispers, but she’s thinking about how to take them off anyway without making a complete fool of herself. 

“If you want to,” Villanelle replies, and then she’s taking three steps to the bed and putting a hand on Eve’s sternum and pressing her down, down, down into the bed, straddling Eve’s waist. Eve instantly fights back, and they spend a moment hitting each other like teenage girls until Villanelle catches Eve’s hands and pins them on the pillows behind her head and just. Holds her there.

“Do you want to?” Villanelle asks. She looks into Eve’s eyes, her breathing shallow and her pupils blown. Eve squirms beneath her because damn her, she does want to do this. She wants to feel strong like she did on the bus when she caught Villanelle by surprise, she wants to push Villanelle’s limits and make for fucking sure that Villanelle _remembers_ her. She can’t just leave Eve in the dust, move on with her life. Whatever this is, it means something and it--

“Eve,” Villanelle says, soft. She’s leaning back, some sort of pout on her face. She lets go of Eve’s hands, and jesus, does Eve have to do everything?

Eve surges up, her abdomen screaming in protest and kisses Villanelle again, except this time she isn’t kissing a stunned, unmoving yet entirely willing participant. This time, she kisses Villanelle and Villanelle’s hands are on her cheeks, holding her there as she moves her lips, pries Eve’s mouth open, and presses her tongue against Eve’s in a way that feels practically sinful.

And then her hands are moving from Eve’s cheeks to her hair, nails scratching at Eve’s scalp as Villanelle makes a sound against Eve’s lips that sounds like almost like a moan and Eve swallows it up. She kisses hard and messy and Villanelle’s lips slide from Eve’s lips and kiss at Eve’s jawline, her throat, her collarbone. Eve’s hands settle on Villanelle’s thighs, not really doing much moving because she isn’t entirely sure about this. 

Villanelle grabs a fistful of Eve’s hair and pulls Eve’s head back in a quick, hard gesture, and Eve gasps, watching Villanelle watch her.

“Tell me what you want,” Villanelle says, tilting her head. “And then I’ll give it to you.”

Villanelle’s other hand ghosts across Eve’s shoulder, fingertips dancing on the bare skin of Eve’s upper arm, and _jesus_ , Villanelle really knows how to fucking do this. Eve feels this touch through every single inch of her.

Yet, still, Villanelle isn’t allowed to win. “I want you to leave me alone,” Eve whispers, and her voice holds exactly zero conviction and might even break a bit on the last word because Villanelle’s fingertips are now on her throat, her collarbone.

“Okay,” Villanelle says. 

The touch is gone, and then the hand in her hair is gone, too, and Eve, fuck it, she says, “Not now.” Eve swallows, staring death in the face, and continues, “After this, I want-- I want to never seen you again.”

Except she does. She always does. She can’t imagine never seeing Villanelle again. She can’t even-- “Fuck,” she breathes, closing her eyes. “No, I don’t want that.”

Villanelle sits, silent, on Eve’s lap. Eve peeks at her, catching an unsure expression crossing her features before it solidifies into something sultry, something alluring, something that encapsulates the predator she knows Villanelle can be. “I know what I want,” she says. “Do you want me to fuck you?”

And Eve realizes that Villanelle needs her to say it. Admit defeat, give in, do everything Eve’s insides are screaming _not to do_. And yet.

Eve nods. “Yes.”

Villanelle’s kissing her again, the touch on her collarbones resuming before she grabs a handful of Eve’s breast through her shirt, and Eve gasps into Villanelle’s mouth not from the pure feeling of it but from the thought of someone wanting her this much, as hungrily as Villanelle seems to.

Hands tug at Eve’s shirt, pulling it over her head and off, and Villanelle marvels at her, takes her in, and Eve doesn’t feel self-conscious in any sort of way. Not until Villanelle goes in for another kiss, yet this time completely misses Eve’s mouth in favor of wrapping pink, wet lips around one of Eve’s nipples. “Oh, _jesus_ ,” Eve says. Can’t help it.

And then she’s falling back against the bed, Villanelle kissing one breast and kneading the other and a thigh slips between Eve’s legs and it’s electric, it’s pulsing, it’s--it’s--it’s--

So fucking much.

Eve bucks against the pressure, rubbing herself harder and harder, letting out unfathomable sounds that she knows are just… Just proving to Villanelle how much she fucking wants this.

There’s a rough shuffle as Villanelle drags a hand down between the two of them, but all of a sudden, two things happen at one. Villanelle is suddenly there, kissing her again, just as her hand dives between Eve’s legs and bypasses her underwear and her fingers are sliding against Eve’s wetness. Villanelle smiles against Eve’s mouth, says, “Oh, _Eve_ ,” and it’s almost chastising, almost teasing.

“Shut up,” Eve murmurs. “God, _fuck_.”

Villanelle’s fingertip rubs circles around Eve’s clit, too much and too hard but she makes Eve’s hips jerk hard against her hand before she lets up. She presses a tentative fingertip against Eve’s entrance, not quite pressing forward, but not not quite doing it, and Eve, god, she just wants--

“Say it,” Villanelle presses, her voice low and rough against Eve’s throat. Her teeth bite at the small space underneath Eve’s ear. “Say it.”

Eve knows what she wants. Knows it, doesn’t want to admit it, doesn’t want to say fucking anything, just wants to drown in Villanelle and forget the rest of it exists. The fingers are still there, teasing, and if Eve writhes just so, she can get just a bit of friction without Villanelle--

“Tsk,” Villanelle murmurs, removing her fingers altogether. 

“Fucking _fine_ ,” Eve breathes, already wanting to hit Villanelle across the fucking face. “Just fucking-- _please_. Please. Is that what you want, you fucking--”

She moans, a sound blooming from her chest that Eve didn’t even fucking know she could make. Villanelle presses two fingers inside of her, filling her up and hitting against the front of her, running across a rough hint of muscle, building Eve up, up, up. Villanelle kisses her, starts moving her fingers, and Eve moves her hips in rhythm with Villanelle’s thrusts, wanting more, harder.

Either Villanelle can read minds or she’s just very, very good at this because she adds a third finger and Eve almost immediately clamps down and comes from the sheer fucking pleasure of it all. 

“Fuck, you’re so fucking _good_ ,” Eve breathes, her head twisting to the side and mouth half-buried into a pillow. 

Villanelle sits back, watches Eve with an intense gaze that Eve can’t meet, and then her other hand is sliding around Eve’s neck and her fingers press tentatively against Eve’s jugular, Eve’s trachea, underneath Eve’s jaw. Her hand words tirelessly, quickening her pace as she leans forward, puts just the slightest pressure against Eve’s throat…

Eve sucks in a breath. Holds Villanelle’s gaze.

Villanelle’s grip tightens against Eve’s neck, and as Villanelle’s fingers twist inside of her, Eve thinks _This is what you wanted_.

“Yes,” she breathes. “Yes, yes, yes,” and Villanelle’s fingers quicken and curl and she fucks Eve hard enough for Eve to see stars, for Eve’s back to arch off the bed, and finally, hard enough to pull a shuddering, gasping orgasm right from Eve’s gut, as she clenches around Villanelle and just… rides through it.

Villanelle leans down, her mouth finds Eve’s neck again, pressing soft kiss after soft kiss, and fuck if Eve doesn’t want _soft_. 

She grabs Villanelle’s wrist and pushes at it, and when Villanelle draws her hand off Eve’s throat, Eve takes advantage of the weight shift and she—

She flips them over, albeit clumsily, and Villanelle lands on her back with a small _oof_ , but she’s staring at Eve again, and now Eve is on top and now that she’s here, she doesn't know what to do.

“I think I…” and Eve loses her nerve. She’s sitting on top of a, what, twenty-six year old? “I think I want to kill you,” she admits, ignoring the way one of Villanelle’s eyebrows raise. “But then you would be gone. And I don’t want that. For you to be gone.”

Villanelle grabs one of Eve’s hands and places it on her own neck. “So kill me,” she says, like it’s the easiest, simplest thing in the world. Maybe it is. 

But it’s fucking infuriating. Eve presses hard against Villanelle’s neck, as hard as she can, but Villanelle smiles so wide and Eve just— she wants to wipe that smile from Villanelle’s stupid fucking face.

The obvious next move (obviously) is for Eve to kiss her.

So she does.

And, well, it’s different, now, isn’t it?

Eve’s good at fury. She’s good at hiding behind sharp words or the piercing taste of alcohol. She kisses Villanelle with a fury that is, these days, only reserved for Villanelle. And Villanelle matches her beat for beat. It’s like dancing. Eve opens her lips, Villanelle widens their kiss, Eve draws a tongue across Villanelle’s top lip, Villanelle presses teeth into Eve’s bottom one.

_Admit it, Eve. You wish I was here._

Eve reaches for Villanelle’s jeans and--

Well.

Eve wakes up.

She’s covered in sweat, hand buried between her legs, and, “What the _fuck_?” she says, to an empty room.

It was a dream.

Because Villanelle isn’t here. Because the fucking toy is still sitting on the nightstand and it’s still today, the day she kissed a fucking _assassin_ , and Eve is alone.

Eve pulls her hand from her pants.

“Fuck,” she says, because she thinks she might be in fucking love.

Yeah. She wishes Villanelle was here.

**Author's Note:**

> comments and kudos are my lifeblood... anyway eve and villanelle, huh? they really. exist. 
> 
> they're really... out here.


End file.
